Face down
by Macarons and Muffins
Summary: Joey Boswell is an observant person, and as such, he finds it very unsettling to see his cousin's once confident girlfriend forever covered in bruises. Alternate Universes, VERY dark themes. J/M, anti S/M.
1. Prologue

**I do not own bread.**

* * *

**WARNING:**

**It is very likely that this fic may get me kicked out of the fandom before I have a chance to upload any more chapters, because the bread fandom is supposed to be full of humour, angsty drama and Joetina, not dark stuff like this. You know when people say Read at your own risk? Well, I seriously mean it when it comes to this fic. I am not a sick and twisted person, this is just an idea loosely inspired by one of my favourite songs that cropped into my head and gave me a sudden burst of inspiration. If by any chance I am still in the fandom to continue this fic, then it will get nicer with time.**

** I am so sorry.**

* * *

**_Prologue_**

* * *

_It's dark._

_The house is empty, and she is throwing things into her suitcase in a haphazard way._

_She's running out of time. It's nearly too late, he's nearly here..._

_The door slams. Every inch of her skin crawls and a chill works its way into her insides._

_He's here._

_"TINA!"_

_She wants to do something strong, but instead she finds herself cowering into the wall. She doesn't know what to do any more. She's starting to lose hope in this relationship._

_"TINA!"_

_His voice is slurred._

_He is drunk._

_This does not surprise her._

_More doors slam and Martina tries to make herself invisible. Maybe, just maybe, he won't see her. Maybe the darkness will shroud her like a blanket and keep her safe from the fate she is about to-_

_"Tina, you bitch, where are you?"_

_The bedroom door is opening. Grim, ghostly light slides across the floor, and into Martina's eyes._

_"There you are."_

_His accent is stronger when he's drunk. He leers at her, a grimy hand reaching down to snatch her from the floor._

_"Do I get a kiss from my little bitch here?"_

_His hand is in her hair, tugging. It's excruciating, and despite herself a shriek pierces the air. _

_He laughs, a harsh raucous sound, delighting in her pain._

_"Miss me, Tina?"_

_He's drunk, she tells herself. He doesn't mean it; he is just drunk, and tomorrow he will apologise._

_But whether or not he apologises, it does not account for the hell he puts her through. The hell she has to endure almost every night._

_"Yes." She knows not to deny him when he is in a mood like this. Her lips tremble, struggling to form the word._

_"Good. I missed your ugly face, little bitch."_

_And there it is._

_A slap._

_It's started._

_She doesn't ask why any more. She knows it is because she is too "ugly" for his tastes, or merely because she is in the way, target practice. She doesn't even cry out when his hand slams into her face._

_"Like that, little bitch?"_

_Most men call their wives "honey", "baby" or "sweetheart." His pet name for her is far more sinister and degrading._

_"Answer me, you brat!"_

_She didn't answer because she feared any answer she gave would anger him. Now, she realises with a twist of horror, that by not doing so, it has only made it worse._

_The next blow is more severe, a fist curled up and thudding into the side of her head, unsteadying her._

_Still, she doesn't cry out._

_She doesn't cry out because she knows that this is not the worst pain she will endure tonight. She is saving her screams._

_This is only the appetiser._

_He shoves her roughly to the ground. She falls on the suitcase she was pathetically packing with a thud and it topples over, clothes scattering across the floor._

_He looks down, eyes focusing on the suitcase, and she freezes. This is bad- very bad. Many times, during one of his drunken stupors, has he threatened what will happen if she tries to leave him. Of course, when he is sober, he whines and promises that she can leave if she wants, but he never means it anyway and besides, he is not sober now._

_A grin, so twisted and masochistic that it is truly terrifying to behold, splits his unshaven face in half. She knows this grin all too well. He is not happy, but hysterically furious, and at the same time in a sick way satisfied that he now has a reason, a rationale, for what he is about to inflict on her._

_"What were you doing, Tina?" he hisses, digging his fingernails into her arm so tightly that it breaks the skin._

_"Leaving me?"_

_She can't speak right now. She is frozen, staring up at him, unable to draw any ounce of the strength she once had._

_"No." she finally lies, then winces at how untrue the words sound._

_"Get up, you lying whore!" _

_He roars the words, yanking on her arm so hard that it nearly rips it from its socket. She scrambles up, legs shaking, and meets his malicious grin, eyes glazed with the twin evils of sadism and alcohol, combined to create a nightmarish being. With his free hand, the other still grasping her arm, he begins to fling the clothes she had packed across the room with a violent fury, tearing most of them in the effort._

_"Didn't I tell you what would happen if you tried to leave? Huh? ANSWER ME!"_

_"Yes, you did!"_

_The answer is not enough. He flings her across the room, and she crashes onto the dilapidated bed. Before she can move, he lunges for her, clambering on top, feeling of alcohol. _

_"I guess I need to teach you a bloody lesson, Tina."_

_He claws at her cheeks, holding her face close to his and staring into her eyes, his own filled with an indescribable darkness. And Martina knows that he is done with the little games, done with the appetisers._

_It is time for the main course._

_Every inch of her is frozen with fear._

_He is not gentle, of course. He is rough, and every second is filled with as more agony than humanly possible. She is tossed across the bed and in his haste to tear her clothes from her skin, her skull whacks against the chipped headboard of the bed, and she wishes that it will knock her out, so she does not have to be conscious for the torture to come. But it does not, and though she tries to hold it in, she screams, screams so loudly that her throat feels torn to shreds._

_No matter how much she prepares herself for it, she can never grow accustomed. Each time is fresh in its horror._

_In the darkness, with tears streaming down her cheeks and mingling with sweat and blood, Martina squeezes her eyes shut. And she prays, with a broken desperation, that God will save her from this nightmare in any way possible._

* * *

_**If you have read this and do not absolutely loathe me for what I have done to Martina, then I urge you to listen to the song that inspired this, "Face Down" by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, a song that is nowhere near as dark as some of the stuff that has happened or will happen in this fic, but still raises awareness of abusive relationships. ( I do not own the rights to the song Face Down or the title, both are referenced for entertainment purposes only and no copyright infringement is intended.)**_


	2. 1

**So, I'm sorry this hasn't been updated in forever...**

**I don't own bread.**

* * *

The smell of roast meat wafts through the house. Nellie stands guard over the cooker, working to make sure every element of the meal is precise. Anyone who didn't know her would think she was looking forward to the dinner, but the scowl on her face and her tightly pursed lips tell a different story.

She is not happy.

Nellie hates having dinner with cousin Shifty, the "black sheep" of the family. He is loud and obnoxious, scarfing down most of the food and making crude remarks. If she had her way they would never contact him, but two things keep her begrudgingly inviting him over once a month.

The first is Joey's insistence that he is family and must be catered for.

The second is his recent wife, Martina.

Nellie likes Martina. Martina is everything Shifty needs in a woman; feisty, strong, intelligent and pretty- a quality needed to capture his attention. Usually, Nellie is able to have long-winded discussions with Martina and enjoys her company. Martina can- or _could_, anyway- keep Shifty in check.

However, for the past few visits, Nellie has noticed a change in Martina. The kind of change that is there, lingering in the air, but she is unable to pinpoint why or how it has happened. Martina has been less confident and more subdued, keeping to herself or drifting off during conversation. It confuses Nellie, Nellie who prides herself on knowing every single thing that goes on amongst her children.

And Martina, she thinks idly, is one of her children. More so than Shifty is, despite him being distantly related, and more so than he could ever hope to be. And while Martina is too old to be mothered in that sense, Nellie wishes she could be there for her in other ways; being a shoulder to cry on, a confidante, or the go to for a cup of tea and whisper of advice. Her children, she thinks as she stirs the gravy for diner, rarely confide in her, and often she wishes she had more daughters instead of mostly boys.

Slowly, as the meal starts coming together, members of the Boswell family drift in, one by one. Aveline, her hair in the latest bizarre style, arguing with Adrian who is tugging on the sleeves of his smart cardigan. Jack, looking gloomy because of his latest failed deal. Billy stumbling down the stairs in a too large sweatshirt with uncombed curls, obviously sullen.

And then, Joey. Joey, who has been so deep in thought these days, something clearly bothering him. And Nellie, despite all her curiosity screaming out at her, knows better than to ask him. Of all her children, and their devious plots, Joey is the most secretive. He keeps things to himself, rather than burdening his family with them.

She is setting the table when someone knocks the door quite sloppily. Joey, dutifully, rises to answer it. The door swings open, and he tries hard not to grimace when he sees Shifty's face. He will be accommodating, he thinks drily, as he always is, and ignore the disdain for his cousin that settles in his gut.

"Joey, my fine man," Shifty brays, clapping a hand on Joey's shoulder. Joey gives him a tight, forced grin.

"Shifty. Come in, son."

Shifty holds up a suspiciously expensive bottle of wine he's brought- one almost certainly stolen- and barges in. Joey very nearly misses Martina, who is in the wake of his cousin. Her appearance takes him aback slightly- she looks a little thinner, perhaps, than when he last saw her, and her hair- instead of being in the quirky flip she prefers, is styled down, one side brushing artfully over her face , shadowing her right eye. Although it is April, she is wearing a heavy turtleneck that covers her neck and arms completely.

This doesn't seem normal to Joey. But then again, what does he know? It could, he tries to reason with himself, be the latest fashion.

"Come on, 'Tina." Shifty smiles at his wife, a little too widely, and pulls her inside, a little too forcefully. Maybe they had a fight before they came, Joey wonders; there is a strange tension between them that unnerves him slightly, but he tells himself that it is not his place to meddle. If the two have fought and want to confide in him they will, but as they do not seem to be arguing right now and affecting the dinner then he will leave them be.

The two enter the cramped kitchen in the Boswell home, Shifty still gripping Martina's arm tightly. They are met with smiles, many of them clearly false, from the other Boswells. Most of the family dislike Shifty but tolerate him out of courtesy, whilst Jack is the opposite- he dislikes Martina, and often thinks of her as "the dragon lady." Billy doesn't care either way; he hates anyone who gets in the way of dinner and likes anyone when he's in the right mood for it.

"Welcome, Martina," Nellie smiles at her, before turning to Shifty, her face hardening from its motherly expression. "Shifty."

"Hello, Auntie Nellie!" To the woman's irritation, Shifty wraps an arm around her. Martina stands in the background, and Joey spares her a look of concern. She is quiet, and it is odd; she has been growing more and more silent recently, and while she once used to banter with him down at the DHSS, that has become less frequent.

"How are you today, Martina?"

He gives her the arrogant, lopsided grin that would have once made her roll her eyes. Instead, Martina seems to barely focus on his face.

"Great."

He can tell she is lying. Her word, though spoken with some enthusiasm, is clearly strained. This is beginning to worry Joey more and more, though Shifty ceases irritating Nellie and cuts in.

"'Tina hasn't been very well, lately." he excuses sympathetically, squeezing Martina's shoulder in what is supposed to be a comforting gesture. "So if she seems quiet, then it's 'cause of that. She's very tired- nasty flu she had, didn't you, Martina?"

Martina nods, and murmurs of sympathy ripple around the table. The other Boswells seem appeased by the explanation. Nellie clicks her tongue and offers Martina her recipe for chicken soup, the boys mutter that they hope she'll get better soon and Aveline, desperate to get the attention back onto herself, begins recounting a bad flu that she had once, and how it 'wrecked her pores'. Martina nods and gives agreement, and as the family sit down to prayers, all are satisfied with Shifty's explanation.

All but one.

Joey does not buy it.

Surely, he thinks with a frown, they must have noticed how forced Martina's discussion of her "illness" was? The pause, the hesitation, before she agreed with Shifty's excuse?

The way he squeezed her shoulder too tightly, not as comfort- as the others seem to believe- but as a warning?

Apparently, they did not notice it. But he, being the most observant of his family, did and his features etch into a deeper frown.

Something is up with Martina and Shifty. There has been for a while.

* * *

When Dinner finishes, the Boswells retire into their homely living room. Nellie is about to stay behind and do the dishes, but Shifty stops her.

"Don't worry, Auntie Nellie," he says with false consideration. "I'll sort them out."

Nellie thanks him begrudgingly and leaves the kitchen, only for Shifty to tap his wife's shoulder.

"'Tina, you'll do the dishes, won't you?" he grins at her. Joey almost snorts- surely there is no way Martina would submit...

"Of course." Martina says instantly, and Joey's eyes widen. This is... unusual. Martina should not be agreeing to do the dishes. Martina should be hitting Shifty in the head with them and telling him to do them himself.

"I'll help." Joey finds himself saying. He is not sure why- he has always secretly hated doing chores, but somehow he feels he needs to. He has a strange and unexplained protective twinge towards Martina right now...

Shifty's face ripples with a unidentifiable emotion, but he fixes Joey with a smile and leaves the room. Joey can hear his obnoxious laughter from the living room, and begins gingerly drying the crockery Martina has washed.

"So, loverly Martina," Joey teases, forcing some false humour into his voice to mask his concern. "I haven't noticed you at the DHSS in a while. It has been very disappointing, sunshine."

Joey acts as though he is teasing, but it is a genuine query. It is out of character for Martina to no longer work at the DHSS, and though he will not admit it, Joey has missed her.

Martina doesn't seem to register the words for a moment, before looking up.

"Shifty thinks I should work less."

Ah. Joey almost laughs, recalling a conversation they'd had earlier about this during one of his visits to the DHSS.

_"Shifty thinks I should work less."_

_"And are you going to?"_

_A disdainful snort._

_"Of course not. Otherwise I wouldn't be 'ere, dishing out justice to you bloody lot."_

He smirks at this, then he realises that it isn't funny at all. Because Martina has given in to him. And she never gives in.

"That's interesting."

He can't manage more than a cumbersome reply. Martina shrugs, looking towards the living room almost as if she is checking if the coast is clear, before speaking.

"Shifty thinks I should spend more time making the apartment presentable."

She pauses, and then she smirks up at him. It is her old smirk, the _I'm-out-to-get-you_ one, except there is something off about it, something that Joey can't put his finger on.

"Don't think you'll get off so easily, though, Mister Boswell. I'm still in part time, and I'll still be able to catch you out, got it?"

Joey wants to laugh. He wants to brush her behaviour off as the illness Shifty said it was and think that everything is back to normal. But before he can, it hits him like a load of bricks; he realises what is wrong about Martina's smile.

It doesn't reach her eyes.

Her eyes are dead and closed off, as though they are concealing something. And that is very wrong.

* * *

**So that is the first official chapter. And yeah, these are short chapters because that kind of fits with the style of the fic. **


End file.
